Catherine Narracott
The Wife
We are skiing among the trees now. No time to think, only to react.
I quite enjoy the slight danger of not always being sure one can stop in time, the whip of branches against one’s face and shoulders when you get too close.
Everything about my life has been so safe; I make sure to enjoy the thrills when they come my way.
Anthony gets a little way ahead, going so fast that I think he might fall.
Then we come out of the trees and emerge onto a wide piste.
I look up the slope before crossing it to make sure that I’m not on a collision path with another skier, when I see a familiar figure at the top.
He’s some hundred yards above us but the bright red bobble hat marks him unmistakably as the young man with the glasses.
When Anthony stops to catch his breath I pull up beside him, and say: ‘Darling, there he is again! That young man. Look—’ I point.
‘He’s skiing down towards us.’ He seems to be calling something to us, but the wind funnelling down through the gaps between the fir trees snatches any sound away before it reaches us.
I look over at Anthony. He, too, is watching the steadily approaching figure.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he says. His tone is one of vague annoyance but this time I notice that he appears a little spooked.
I’ve never seen my husband quite like this, in fact. It’s almost unnerving, to see the change in him, from the assurance of only a few moments ago. ‘Who is he?’ I ask. ‘Do you know him?’
‘It’s nothing,’ he says, but his lips have gone taut and pale, like someone suffering from a chill. I can’t stop looking at him. It’s almost fascinating. ‘Cut it out.’ His voice is a whiplash. ‘Stop mooning at me. Come on,’ he mutters. ‘Let’s go.’
‘But shouldn’t—’
‘Let’s go,’ he barks, and before I have time to respond he has swung his skis round and plummeted down the slope, leaving me stationary, staring after him. I have no choice but to push off in pursuit.
After a few moments I glance behind me at the bobble-hatted figure and realise that he has definitely closed the gap between us. He seems to be skiing like a madman: almost without turning, plummeting down the slope. There’s no question that he’s in pursuit of us.
Should I stop, and ask him what it is he wants?
No, I think that would be too foolish. We’re all alone here out on the mountain.
He could be a madman, for all we know. I am sure that he’s trying to catch up with Anthony, not me.
But all the same, he could conceivably have some sort of weapon …
a knife. A gun? Anthony is always telling me how unworldly I am.
How naive about what people are really like.
The sun has completely gone – when did it get so cloudy? – and the light is so flat and grey it’s difficult to see the slope beneath my skis.
Anthony has already disappeared around the curve of the slope, into a thicker layer of cloud.
Soon I too have descended into the cloud and all of a sudden I can’t seem to get my bearings at all: it’s even hard to tell whether I am really going down or simply sideways across the slope and it’s making me feel a little queasy.
But I’m tougher than I might appear. Hunting on a seventeen-hand thoroughbred in the depths of winter will do that to a person.
So I keep going, keep skiing, keeping pushing forwards, downwards, trying to turn only when I really have to, trying to keep up the speed as much as I can, until I see Anthony as a faint figure in the distance, crouched low.
Suddenly, though, he disappears again. Where has he gone?
I thought I saw him swerve to the left – but I can’t be sure.
The cloud swirls around me and a few fat flakes of snow have started to fall – my lenses blurring with them so that it’s even more difficult to see.
The shifting cloud seems to reveal something up ahead.
There is something strange about the slope, a dark area far below that seems to appear and disappear, a striking contrast to all the white, and one that my eyes and mind can’t quite make sense of.
But inside of me, some clever knowing part I don’t hear very often – a little voice saying: watch out.
And then suddenly the light changes again; the cloud and snow clearing …
and I realise that I am in very great danger.
Only a little way ahead the slope falls away in a huge drop …
and now I see the void that goes all the way to the valley below.
Worse: the thick powdery snow beneath my skis has begun to move. Shifting all as one, taking me with it as though I am standing on a raft being pulled along a river.
I throw all my strength into turning in a stem-christie, my legs burning; I even let out a little scream from the effort of it.
And somehow, somehow, I manage to extricate myself from the moving snow, gathering pace now as it spills over the cliff in one huge mass.
Legs trembling, I just manage to point my skis in the right direction and continue down the run which, I can finally see, curves around to the left.
I ski slowly, catching my breath, running through all that just happened.
I nearly skied off a cliff. It was only ten yards ahead of me.
If I had been slightly less observant, or the cloud slightly thicker …
everything would have been wiped away just like that.
I think of all the things I have ahead of me, the things I have planned for my life.
And where is Anthony? He had the map of the area: he carefully studied the terrain at our hot chocolate stop. He would have known about the drop, wouldn’t he? Or …
No. There he is, a dark figure waiting expectantly a little way beneath me. And the young man? He had almost caught up with me last time I turned. I glance back up the slope, but the swirling cloud covers everything.
I manage to stop beside him. Now I realise how much my legs are trembling. ‘I—’ I can’t seem to catch my breath … I gulp at the freezing air. ‘The cliff … I nearly skied off it.’
‘I told you to turn,’ Anthony drawls. ‘Before we set off. And I was shouting to you, just now.’
‘I didn’t hear you,’ I whisper. I didn’t. I don’t remember him telling me and I didn’t hear any shouting. ‘Perhaps the wind …’ I say, faintly. But there isn’t much wind. The cloud, then? Can cloud muffle sound?
‘I shouted,’ he says. I know that tone. It’s an end to the conversation.
He peers beyond me. ‘No sign of our friend. Think we managed to lose him. Good. Just as I hoped. With a bit of luck, he won’t be bothering us again.’
‘Anthony,’ I say. ‘Oh, how horrible … just think, what if he skied off the cliff? He might not have known to turn, either.’
‘Well darling, you know what they say? The only good Red is a dead Red.’
‘But Anthony,’ I say. ‘I could have died.’
‘Oh, don’t be hysterical,’ he snaps.
We ski back to the hotel. It’s not difficult to ski slowly now. It’s actually difficult to stay upright, stay moving. My legs feel shaky. The truth is, I don’t believe my husband. I don’t think he shouted at all. What did he mean to happen?